Finally, I was reunited with someone who truly and infallibly loved me. Finally, I was with the one person on the whole Earth who looked at me with those warm, loving eyes, like there was nothing more important or beautiful than me.
Finally, I was home.
Wen, 9, first time on a computer during Christmas dinner.
Wen, 11, on Christmas, a few years after arriving in America.
CHAPTER 6:
The Beginning.
“The beauty of this earth is endless, but the real beauty lies in the hearts of the people I have had the pleasure of meeting.”
After having a great time over Christmas, it was time to get serious. Time had come to prepare for school in America. The thought was all at once terrifying and exciting, but for me to even step foot in a classroom was like going through the immigration process all over again: tests, paperwork, and immunizations. I first had to be tested on my current knowledge so that the administrators could determine which grade level I fit into; they couldn’t (or, rather, didn’t want to) simply go by my age, especially since my education up until that point had been in Africa. And, as anyone who is originally from Africa can attest, children who move to America from that continent or others which are similarly less developed are thought of as dumber than American kids—something that, I’ve found, is not always established in truth or experience, but rather in stereotype and cultural assumption.
I undoubtedly shocked the administrators when I successfully passed all their tests for required knowledge for children in my age group; according to their tests I already knew everything I was supposed to know at my age. And, though I excelled in math, it soon became apparent that that little boast I could claim on my test scores was not enough for them. Even after getting better-than-average scores for my age group the authorities still wanted to hold me back. They felt I would be better off in second grade, with children younger than me. Fortunately my mom did not share their opinion and had the wits and wisdom about her to argue.
Now, typically, school authorities make the assumption that African parents aren’t up to par on their English. In those situations, of course, the parents really never fight back. How my mom caught them off guard! When the administrators suggested I be put into the second grade class, my dear, sweet mother yelled at them for half an hour, asking them what grounds they really had to hold me back from being with my own age group. She rebuked them in her accented yet perfectly-spoken English that, since I was born in November, I was already behind by a year, and how dare they say that they wanted to put a nine-year-old boy who had excelled in his entrance exams into the second grade! I remember being proud of my mother and frightened at the same time, watching her scream at those school officials. I thought to myself as I watched the debate go on, ‘They’ll never let me in school, now.’
When the administrators realized who they were dealing with (and realized that my mother wasn’t going to give up), they gave in and put me into the third grade where I belonged. As we were leaving, I remember my mom leaning over and telling me, “In America, you’re a black person. They think you’re stupid. If I did not yell they would not hear me.” At the time, I was still just a child, new to the workings of the United States of America. I didn’t give much thought to what my mom told me about being black. I didn’t understand what she was saying to me. Weren’t people just… people?
My first day was January fifth. Dressing for it was the hardest part. Minnesota had gotten a few inches of fresh snow that morning and I didn’t yet have any good winter clothes to wear. My mom wasn’t making enough money yet to be able to buy me proper winter shoes; she gave me her own boots so my feet wouldn’t freeze and her own jacket so my body wouldn’t freeze, and that’s really all she could do. Our family had received some clothes which were roughly my size from our church’s clothing center, D.A.P.C. and I proudly wore them to class that day, and many others after that. So, I wasn’t completely without a wardrobe but, still, those donated clothes weren’t really enough to tackle a Minnesota winter.
The first day of school was so nice. They served us a delicious breakfast filled with sugary things—like pancakes and fruit in syrup and chocolate milk—which my distant homeland didn’t have much of. Unfortunately, since I was still adapting to the food, certain things did not get along with my stomach.
I was a major curiosity to my classmates. Everyone asked me questions, where I was from, what was my family like, and all those other things kids ask when they don’t know someone. Since I was a bit of a loner growing up, I wasn’t prone to talking a lot (at least yet), but I did love all the attention I was getting; I answered as many questions as I could and sat there, relishing my situation. The teachers told my mom I was the happiest kid they’d ever seen. How true that was! I was just so glad to have teachers I didn’t have to be afraid of. Whenever I did something wrong I prepared myself for a beating which didn’t come. The teachers always said it was okay as long as I apologized. No beatings? What a wonder! Finally I could leave behind any fears I had and simply concentrate on learning.
Every morning I was happy to go back. This school was so different and so much more wonderful than my school in Africa. We had water fountains everywhere that I could drink from; we had delicious free breakfasts and lunches served to us that were not from some lady with a pot sitting outside the school; best of all, I had my mom there saying ‘bye’ to me every day before I left! She always made sure to be there to say goodbye to me, regardless of the hard, 60-hour workweeks she faced to take care of all of us. And all that while on chemotherapy! I knew my mom was working hard and that she was suffering much at the expense of her labor and her sickness. It never ceased to amaze me, even at that young age, knowing how hard she always tried to be next to me in the morning to wish me a good day at school.
As for my studies, I was doing great. The teachers all liked me. I was the smartest kid in class throughout my third grade year (take that, administrators!). One teacher, Mr. Palmer, helped me to learn normal English, instead of the Pidgin English of Cameroon. Mr. Palmer was the absolute nicest teacher at that school. He knew I had a hard time learning proper English, so he made his best effort to learn Pidgin so he could speak to me more easily. Not only that, but he played games with me and spent real quality time with me. It didn’t take long for me to feel comfortable in school and talk to him about myself and where I had come from.
Making friends in Minnesota was much easier than it was in Cameroon. I made friends with a few girls, even—maybe because I had an innocent smile or they found my strong accent intriguing—and everyone was very nice. During recess we had a playground to go to. It didn’t take long for me to figure out how fun a Minnesota winter could be, because my classmates and I even got to sled down the hills when they were covered in snow.
The school year went by quickly. I made many American friends. I made good grades. My mother was here. My siblings were here. I had my family and we were all together. Everything was as good as it could possibly be. I was in heaven.
Then summer vacation came. It was a big surprise to me when I discovered how I was going to be spending it.
That summer of 2008 was when my white grandparents—and— invited me to their lake house in Ohio for a week. I didn’t know what a lake house was. But I enjoyed spending time with my grandparents, so I was excited to go and see something different.
Again I had to get on a plane. My mom kissed me as I boarded the short flight to Ohio as an unaccompanied minor. The flight itself was uneventful and when I arrived at my destination, I sat in the airport waiting for my grandmother to come pick me up. She hadn’t come for me after nearly half an hour of waiting; I started getting worried. Had I gone to the wrong place? Was I supposed to go somewhere else? Had I been abandoned?
My fears settled when, after a few minutes more, Grandma Barb showed up. I was happy to see her, but a little unsure as to why she had taken so long to come get me. As young children often do, after a few moments I had forgotte
n about the whole thing. Grandma was kind enough to explain her tardiness to me once we were both loaded into the car. She told me that, since she was white and I was black, when she’d asked the airport attendants if there were any kids on the flight they didn’t think she was referring to me; they didn’t expect a white woman to be picking up a black kid. She’d had to call my mother to make sure she’d written down the right flight, or to make sure that I’d even been on the plane at all! Once my mom verified that I was indeed on the flight, she asked the airport attendants again, this time mentioning that I was black. Ah-ha! The mystery was solved, and Grandma had finally been pointed in the right direction to come get me.
Despite the mishap at the airport, I was excited to see another part of America. Lakeside Ohio is a gated community on the coastline of Lake Erie filled with some of the friendliest people in America. When we pulled up to my grandparents’ house, I was shocked.
Granddad Richard was there waiting. He had arranged a few wooden alphabet blocks to read “Welcome Cami and Wen” on top of the TV (my cousin Cami was also supposed to be coming); Granddad was missing another ‘w’ block and it ended up spelling ‘Welcome Cami and en’, but the effort made me feel really special. What a thrill to have a sign made in my name! After saying ‘hello’ and exchanging various hugs and kisses, I was directed to my very own room. To this day, I don’t think they understand how excited I was about the prospect of my own living space. For the first time in my life I had my own bed, and, while it was small, it was all to myself; a glorious room in a beautiful house that I didn’t have to share with anyone else. I was overjoyed but kept my cool when they took me out to walk around town and show me Lakeside. I didn’t want to embarrass them; not after all they’d done for me. When we returned to the cottage we had a big dinner with corn (I love corn!) and afterward some of my grandparents’ friends came over to introduce themselves. They visited for a little while but, after such an eventful day, I was ready to crash. As soon as the visitors departed and my grandparents tucked me into my very own bed. Though I was excited to wake up the next morning and do something fun in a town I’d never been to before, my adrenaline for the day had been depleted and I fell asleep in the blink of an eye.
I awoke with my first full day at Lakeside wide-open before me, full of possibilities. As I emerged from my room the first person to greet me was Granddad, who was sitting at the table reading the newspaper. He invited me to grab some breakfast and sit with him. As we ate together he told me a little about the town, showed me some pictures, and then explained that today he would be taking me out on a boat. Was I ever excited about that! When Grandma finally woke up (she was usually the last one up) and showered, she and I road our bikes up a hill. Even though I knew how to ride a bicycle, I’d never owned one of my own. Lucky for me, Granddad had a few spares in his shop which he allowed me to use so I could freely cruise around town like one of the cool kids. This was the first time I had a bike to use as I wished (and one that was actually my size).
At the top of the hill there was a place where I could sign up to take day classes to learn fun skills, like painting, drawing, or other types of crafts, for only one dollar. I had my sights set on the painting class right away. I’d never before painted anything. The possibility of dipping a brush in one color of paint or another and swiping it across my canvas to create an image I had in my mind excited me. And, for only one dollar, there was no way I was going to pass up the opportunity!
When I received confirmation on which of the painting classes I would be in, I was eager to get back home, eager to go out on a boat for my first time. When we returned to the house, Granddad was fueling and polishing his 1933 Ford (a.k.a. the Gangster car). I had never seen an old car like that before, so I was thrilled to get in and take a drive down to the beach.
My grandparents’ boat was a beauty. It was a wooden Lyman from the 1950s, painted white on the sides with shiny, lacquered wood on top. It had a matching flag on the front and a red canvas cover over the cockpit… it was so much fun! Granddad would speed along the water and make sharp turns, flinging spray everywhere. I watched the waves behind us churn into white froth as we flew across Lake Erie. Despite all the fun we were having, the sun was hot and we were quickly tiring. It was only a few hours of fun on the lake before we returned home.
I had no restraints the rest of the day; I was free. My grandparents said I could go out anywhere I wanted to – I could take walks or ride my bike or go take more classes at the community center– but I had to be back by nine o’clock in the evening (which is still light out in Ohio in the summertime). I chose to walk down to the dock behind the house. I looked out over the water and watched the people playing in their boats and splashing around in their swimsuits. Since I didn’t know anyone around the lake, I sat there only for a few hours before going home.
The rest of my trip at Lakeside was all about the same. It was seven days’ chock full of memories in pure, delightful summer sunshine on a beautiful lake with my beautiful bike and my lovely bedroom and my fantastic grandparents. I had my share of adventure at that house and I will never forget any of it. Lakeside was the first place I’d ever felt freedom and happiness deep down into the core of my being. Yes, I was happy in Minnesota with my mother and my siblings. Yes, having American friends in my wonderful American school made me happy. Even Mr. Palmer was a source of happiness. But, there, at Lakeside… that was bliss. My grandparents knew precisely how to nourish my young, free-spirited nature; they allowed me to go where I wanted to go, putting only minor responsibilities on me like being home before nine and telling them where I was going to be during the day. They gave me a bicycle so I could look (and feel) cool and have fun around town. They were proud to introduce me to their friends, and even introduced me to one of the neighborhood kids so that I would have someone my age to play with. I left that lake house so incredibly thankful. To this day, I still can’t put my true gratitude into adequate words.
Never before had I felt so free, not only physically, but emotionally and spiritually free, too; freedom from want, from worry, from the pressure of schedules or obligations. The experience I had there has followed me into adulthood. I’ll never forget what true happiness feels like. And all because a kind white couple decided to have a little black grandson like me.
Wooden blocks set on top of My grandparents’ television to
welcome him to Lakeside, Ohio for the first time.
Wen working on some craft in his granddad’s shop.
CHAPTER 7:
The Next Three Years.
“Let’s spend some time together and I’ll open your eyes to a world you might never have known was there.”
Like that speedboat on Lake Erie, the next three years went by with unexpected speed leaving a flash of memories behind it.
My mother, now not only infiltrated by one but two types of cancer, held her wig tightly to her head as she ran from job to job. Val and Sylvie, who were attending local college, rushed up from bed in the early light of day to catch the bus in order to make it on time to their various classes. My other brother, Francis, was busy with high school; his Nintendo console occupied any of his free time. And me? I was still delighting in the attention I got in my own house. As I progressed from grade to grade, my teachers became successively less nice than when I’d first arrived to America. But, despite their increasing sternness, they were still good educators and pretty awesome in their own right.
The summer after my initial visit to my grandparents’ home, I returned once again to Lakeside. The difference was that, now, I was ten; I had hit double digits over the winter and that meant an entirely new level of fun and adventure was opened up to me.
Being ten meant I could enroll into a week-long program called MGM, Middle Grade Ministries. The year before I had been disappointed about not meeting the age requirements for MGM, and had long since (at least, long for a nine-year-old) awaited the day when I would return to Lakeside to partake of the educational minist
ry and enjoy the fellowship of new friends my age who loved God and Jesus as much as I did. I attended MGM classes daily; air volleyball, contests, Frisbee matches, and other indoor activities filled my week. And it was at MGM that I met my very first American best friend.
Noah was a year older than me and a very cool dude (from my perspective he seemed the coolest of the bunch). So, in order to get into his good graces and to lift my cool factor just a smidgen, I lied when I introduced myself and told him I was just as old as he. My ruse worked! For the rest of the week we sat next to each other and told jokes and had fun. He was a very friendly guy. It didn’t hurt that his sister was pretty and, consequently, my first crush. Noah and I spent a lot of time together that week, even outside of MGM classes. I met his family and—gosh!—were they wonderful people. They were so nice to me; just easy to talk to and so warm and welcoming. Noah and his family helped me remember that, despite the things I’d dealt with in my past (mostly with my own family) there are great people on this earth who can make you happier just by associating with them.
Like the previous summer, the weeklong stay at my grandparents’ house whizzed by and, before I knew it, I was leaving Lakeside and my new best friend behind. I wouldn’t return for another year, but my home and family in Minnesota had enough going on to keep me busy until then.
Back home, my mother’s hard work was finally paying off: she’d saved enough money to buy us a new house with enough rooms so that we could each have our own. My siblings and I relished the thought of having our own private space and, even though we were grateful for the one-bedroom apartment we’d first come to when arriving in America, we were ready to move on to something more spacious. Besides that, it was tiring to hide me from the apartment owners all the time.
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