African in America

by Wenceslaus Muenyi

  Me walking the cat also sometimes called “The cat formerly known as Pearl”

  Me ready to go to my first all white party in Delaware

  CHAPTER 11:

  Freshman Years. The Good Years.

  “Freshmen year is the year reality hits you and you start

  making new plans.”

  I had the same hope going into high school that I’d had for middle school: that it was another chance at a new beginning for me. I was excited, full of hope, and wishing for the best. My older brother, Francis, had also attended my school—Como Senior High—through 2005. When I began in 2008, I was more than thrilled to once again fill his shoes. My mom had a habit of telling me to be more like my brother, so going to the same high school as him seemed like another great step in the right direction.

  Como was a very popular school and, back when my brother attended it was high on the national ranking. Unfortunately, by the time I arrived on the scene that was no longer the case. Though it was the same campus, the school I knew as Como was not the same school Francis had attended; the student body was much less focused on education and much more focused on social status and making friends. Once again, human nature kicked in and I had to learn to survive by adapting to my environment.

  The first day at Como was unnerving. Being a first generation immigrant from Africa, I had no reference point from which to gauge my adolescence; therefore, I learned about how to survive high school from watching television. I didn’t know what to expect on the walk between my house and the bus stop and, as I stood at the bus stop, I realized I was the only freshman there. Awkwardness set in. I stood alone, off to the side, watching the other students and hoping not to be noticed. The bus came. I got on and faced my next problem: where to sit. There was an obvious unspoken hierarchy to bus seating, so I looked nervously left and right, standing in the aisle in a quiet panic. Finally, after what seemed ages, I spotted a familiar face. My buddy, Fred, was on the bus, too; he was sitting alone so I took point and sat with him. My first hurdle had been successfully cleared. During the ride Fred and I chatted a little, sharing our worries and concerns about our new venture quietly between ourselves as the bus bumped along toward our destination. Once we arrived at school, we went in, picked up our class schedules, and went our separate ways. It’s hard to accurately remember what happened the rest of the day. It was a confusing blur filled with moments of nervousness, vast seas of freshman confusion, and prayers—lots of prayers—which pleaded to God that I wouldn’t embarrass myself or get in the way of a hot-headed senior.

  The first weeks drifted by fairly easily. I didn't make any huge mistakes, I was not bullied… and there was a dance coming up. The Homecoming Dance was scheduled for the third week of school. It would be my first opportunity to go to a dance not held during school hours. I could even bring a date if I had one. But I didn’t. I was too busy feeling my way around, trying to find my place; I didn’t have time to get a date so soon! Besides, I was on alert: from what I’d heard from TV shows and people I’d talked to, Homecoming Week (the week before the dance was held) was five days of freshman torturing. I prepared myself, took precautions. When walking the hallways, I’d always be with a friend; I didn’t use the bathrooms alone; I made sure to stay out of people’s way. I made it through Homecoming Week without a scratch. I privately celebrated my victory and prepared myself for the next glorious stage: my first high school dance. I contemplated who I might dance with (who might dance with me?) and if it would be as much fun as I was hoping. With all the questions bouncing around in my head, my hopefulness turned to doubt, which eventually turned to fear, and I, in effect, psyched myself out of going. I went to bed that night realizing I’d missed my first real socializing opportunity of high school. I was worried at first, but soon realized it was no big deal. There would be more opportunities to come.

  My life was complicated. In regard to school, freshmen year was not that distinct from any of the previous educational re-starts I’d had: I made a lot of friends, had a lot of good classes, and found a place to fit in. It was all good stuff. The real issue with freshmen year happened outside of school.

  That year my mom’s health was not doing well and her work wasn’t making things easy on her. She was still doing data entry work at the largest university in Minnesota, where she had been for the past five years. By that time, she was the most knowledgeable staff member in the office. She was so expert at her craft that the management team started having her train new employees, something that was not part of her job description. Training took a lot of effort and time; she would work long hours taking care of her own tasks only to have to stay longer to help others learn theirs. Being a strong believer in the separation of church and state, my mom did her best not to bring her work problems home with her. But, still, we could all tell the new responsibilities were taking a toll on her health. Working there, even doing the extra stuff, was fine with her. She had no complaints. Until one day it all changed.

  A new job was posted. It was a lead department position and, with her background, seniority, and overall knowledge, it was a spot my mom rightfully deserved. She fit all the qualifications listed; she felt she was a shoe-in for the job. My mom applied. Weeks passed. Then one day she found out that the qualifications—the ones which she had fit—had been lowered. Then she discovered the position was no longer available. It turned out that the department she worked in had found someone under-qualified for the position, with less experience, and gave the job to her. How could that be? How could an employee, chosen as best-of-the-best in her department, chosen even to train new employees, be passed over for someone less qualified? My mom’s only conclusion was that the other person had gotten the position because she was white.

  Mom, angry and disappointed, didn’t tell my siblings and me about what had happened until a few weeks later, when she had made up her mind that she didn’t belong with the company anymore. She had ceaselessly prayed about it, about the situation and about the circumstances, and felt like that it was God’s way of telling her to find something else.

  Months passed. The end of my freshman year was rapidly approaching and mom still didn’t have a new job. Though she kept looking, she was now considering starting a business of her own. All this took place toward the end of my freshmen year.

  When school was let out for the summer my mom gave me another talk. The Black Man talk. She made sure to tell me, as I remember it: “You are a black man in a white man’s world. Don’t you dare forget that. If you do what your white friends do, don’t expect to survive. If you are not great at what you do, don’t expect to survive. The only way for you to get anywhere in this country is by either being the smartest in your group and making your own way, or being incredibly good at sports or media and making your own way. Either way, you have to work very, very hard.” In my head what she told me translated into: ‘Wen school is not the way to do it. Get great at something and do it fast.’ I tossed the discussion in my mind. I thought of my mom. She had many degrees, a number of years of experience, and a great work ethic. I felt that if she couldn’t survive in the business world, how could I expect to be any different? That talk was the reason why for my next three years in high school I looked out for only myself.

  At the same time I found myself helping my mom with her new business. She had going to people’s homes, people who were in need, and taking care of them. This business, at the time, was orchestrated from our basement. She had the business phone installed next to my computer so that I could answer it for her and take messages. My mom worked so hard, the least I felt I could do for her was to be her secretary. So, other than the usual week in Lakeside with my grandparents and with friends who didn’t care about my awkwardness but who only cared about me as a person, I spent most of my freshmen summer helping my mother with her new business.

  I ended freshmen year with a lot on my plate. I started rethinking my life’s strategy. That was when I decided school really wasn’t the way to go. I
committed, subconsciously, to myself; I told myself that if I really wanted to make my dreams come true I couldn’t do it by turning in papers for classes; I had to learn something and being great at it. I had yet to decide what that magical thing was, but I had an idea.

  My room in high school after becoming a blogger.

  Me and one of my best friend’s laying out and getting tan.

  CHAPTER 12:

  Florida, the Heartbreak Cure.

  “Parents who completely shelter their children from the world are, first, setting them up to fail, and, second, from growing and having the life experience they need to be a great person in the future.”

  After a year of doing successful in-home service, my mom’s business changed completely after her meeting with an old friend. They talked and the discussion made my mom reconsider which direction she wanted to take her company and, soon, she’d decided to go from in-home caregiving to relocation services, to assist people in need from a group home to assisted living communities or low-income housing. Mom’s business was now to relocate those people who were not completely disabled and were still partly independent from living in group homes intended for the completely dependent.

  At the same time my mom’s business was shifting gears, my brothers were doing equally well. Val, the eldest, had just finished college and had plans for attending medical school; Francis was just about done with school and would be going to college to obtain an engineering degree. Sylvie had married, moved to Delaware, had a baby girl, Zina, and was working toward finishing school. I was left to my own devices; man of the house.

  The first two years in high school were so similar that it all seems like one long and blurred memory, but, of them, sophomore year was the least significant. I was not performing well in school and it was adversely affecting me at home. The summer after my sophomore year I spent with my sister in Florida, where she went to enjoy the hot tropical weather.

  Junior year began a change in me, even though it started out like any other. School was going as usual and I was getting along just fine with everyone. I was a much less awkward kid by this time, having adjusted myself—finally—to American ways, and so I got along with a few different cliques within the school. My two closest friends were Swai and Kumbi, two guys who I did everything with. We spent a lot of time out at my house, doing homework together and such, and, on weekends, we would go to movies. Throughout high school I had a job as a tech editor, and I used my wages to fund our escapades to the mall or when we went out to eat. It was a great time, just the three of us.

  And then there was Lynn.

  She was a girl I’d known in middle school. I remembered being in eighth grade drama class with her. She gave the best hugs. Back then I had looked forward to seeing her every day. Now, in high school, we stopped occasionally to talk in the hallways and, once we traded phone numbers the texting started. At the time I thought nothing of it; I didn’t think I had a chance of getting together with her, first, because I was not very good at talking to girls, and, second, she had a boyfriend. Seeing my obvious trouble with girls, Swai came to the rescue. He told me if a girl with a boyfriend hit on you it meant she didn’t care much about her boyfriend. He encouraged me text her back, even going as far as to tell me what to say and what not to say, what to do and not to do. Swai was the reason Lynn and I ever dated in the first place.

  Weeks after trading phone numbers, Lynn and I were texting. Constantly. It seemed we were stuck to each other (at least by phone) like white on rice. Through it all, though, she kept hold of her boyfriend, so I soon began to feel guilty and uncomfortable about us texting. But I liked her and continued on, with Swai’s encouragement, of course.

  One day after school I asked Lynn for a hug goodbye. I was shocked when she said no, and had no idea her boyfriend was standing behind me. I angrily walked away from her and refused to talk to her all night or the next day. Soon she sent a message to me on Facebook telling me she’d broken up with her boyfriend. In my head I was cheering, but Swai told me to calm down; he said I should pretend not to care; he was trying to teach me the tricks of the dating game. A week after receiving that Facebook message, Lynn and I started talking again. We planned a date to the movies, my very first. It was not easy, especially with my buddies on the other side of me (yes, they had to come, too) whispering that I needed to make a move on her, and how exactly to do it. I was stuck in the middle of a nervous, sweaty-handed onslaught, sitting between this amazing girl and my buddies, who kept telling me that if I didn’t make a move, I’m a girl. Needless to say, I didn’t really get to watch any of the movie.

  Fast forward one month. Lynn and I were officially dating and I was madly in love. Seventeen years old and already I couldn’t imagine being with anyone else. Looking back now, I think when a person is young and still trying to understand the world their emotions are new and sensitive and ten times as powerful as they are in adulthood, which is why the first love is always the deepest. With this girl I was ready to stop dating cold turkey. I was ready to go on vacations with her. I was ready to give up my best friends for her… and I did.

  Swai and Kumbi, along with other friends I’d had, slowly grew resentful and angry toward me for spending more time with her than I did with them. They stopped wanting to hang out; some started talking behind my back. Only one friend understood what I was going through; only he had the guts to warn me of my impending doom. My friend Bobbi, who I’d initially met in junior high and was a little older (and wiser) than me, warned me not to be so blind, that I shouldn’t already be planning out my life with this girl. He admitted his concern but also left me alone enough to make my own decision about it; he told me that he wouldn’t stop me from dating Lynn even though he knew I would end up hurt, that he just wanted me to know he would always be there if I needed someone to talk to. Bobbi was and still is a true friend. He was absolutely right about Lynn and about everything else he’d told me back then.

  Before the close of the school year, in the spring, my first love would end. After taking Lynn out to one of the most expensive dinners I will ever pay for, she asked if she could go to the museum with another guy. I trusted her—she’d asked me for permission, after all!—and I told her I didn’t mind. The following day she told me something that broke my heart: she said she’d gone on a date with a guy from one of my classes who had recently tried befriending me. Like a man falling off a cliff, I grabbed for air, reached for anything and did everything I could do to stay with her. We dated for another long and grueling week before finally breaking it off. Me being a techie, and with Facebook and cell phones being commonplace, you are not broken up until the relationship has gone what is called “Facebook official”; the way Lynn announced our situation was plain cold: she borrowed my phone so she could use it to change her Facebook relationship status to “single”. Even if I were not a techie guy it would’ve hurt. You simply do not wound a man using his own phone. That’s pretty low.

  After that I was completely heartbroken. I couldn’t talk without choking on my tongue. Eating was something I just did not want to do. A week later I was in Florida with Sylvie, and being far away from Lynn and Minnesota made me feel a lot better. My sister has always been able to see through my emotional curtains; she knew I was coming to Florida because I needed a break from everything related to Lynn. She allowed me to come to her place in Florida, risking the wrath of my mom, who wasn’t happy that I’d left a few days before spring break even began and, thus, missed out on valuable school time. But, my sister has always been doing whatever she can to make me happy. She was willing to take the risk for me; she knew I needed it.

  So, junior year ended with heartbreak and, as hurtful as it was, I think that was what my life needed. Like my mother does, I believe every experience, no matter how insignificant or small it may seem, is part of God’s plan for us to grow into the people we are meant to be in the future. The experience with Lynn changed me completely and, even considering the pain, I am glad I went through
it.

  My granddad surprising me by flying back to MN for my graduation,

  I was so happy and speechless to see him there.

  One of my best friends in my dorm. I taped

  him to my bed so he would go to sleep. Love you bro!

  CHAPTER 13:

  Bigger… Nicer… Better!

  “Educate yourself the best you can; use the public educational system as a supplement to enhance the knowledge you’ve gained on your own.”

  When you are hurt and huddled into a useless heap on the ground, you can either lay there with no hope of standing back up or you can decide for yourself to stand up stronger than before. I chose to do the latter. The emotional experience of my first love and the ensuing heartache made a world of difference in the way I saw myself after returning from Florida.

  In 2011, my mom was doing so well with her business that summer that she upgraded to a new, roomier house in a safer community. It was during that move that I truly realized how much work and toil my mom went through to make her family, not only comfortable, but at home.

  Even though it was out of her budget, my mom ended up choosing a house I really liked. I wasn’t interested in any of the other houses we’d looked at—none of them called to me, none of them felt like home. After she decided to buy the house my mom’s business suddenly became even busier. The government in Minnesota was getting ready to shut down due to our senators’ inability to come to a decision on the state budget. Mom had a lot of preparations to do before that happened. She asked me to do some things for her and, because I had a new appreciation for all her hard work, I didn’t ask questions. I just did it. She gave me her car keys, gave me instructions, and I did it. If she needed me to move something to the new house, if she needed me to answer phones, if she needed me to get an oil change on the car, it didn’t matter: I’d do it.