“He’s not farming the dog. That’s his pet. He likes his dog. The dog keeps him warm at night. We don’t eat dogs.”
He didn’t appear convinced.
Benson held up the popcorn box that was still nearly full. “We have enough food.”
“Okay,” I said. “I think we should go.”
I tried to see if Cliff and Paul were still in their seats, outlasting us, but I couldn’t spot them.
On the way home in the car Lino said from the back seat, “Nine years. Not enough food. Days with no food.”
Nine years. Their whole adolescence.
“We get food every two weeks,” Benson said. “It is not enough. The last three days we have nothing.”
“Starvation days,” Alepho added. “Sometimes no water. On ration day, we stand in long line. Police beat us with sticks and yell, ‘Stand in sun.’ I fall down sometimes.”
They talked all at once. An outpouring of the details I’d been curious about but I was too afraid to ask. No self-pity, not even that much emotion in their voices, as though they were talking about a walk across town. It left me speechless. What words could be appropriate in response? They persisted and repeated things to make sure I heard them. They described some background to the situation, who was fighting whom, where, when, and over what. Similar to what I’d read on the internet. That background made their details more meaningful, but I wished I was hearing from each of them individually; I didn’t want to miss a word. From the basic level of information they were sharing with me, it was clear they had already realized that most Americans had no idea what was happening in Sudan.
As they spoke, I thought about that man who’d been in the seat next to me. Sure, he was subtle, didn’t do or say anything, a sort of benign racism, I supposed. Benign for me, perhaps, but definitely not for them. I imagined Alepho being interviewed for a job or Benson applying to college or Lino setting up a bank account. Most people weren’t like that man, but even a few would be too many. Encounters with someone of his ilk would bar them from opportunities, smother their enthusiasm and confidence.
My grip tightened on the steering wheel. My fears and concerns about making a commitment shrank and felt petty in the face of my anger. If I cared, I couldn’t just stew and scream, I had to do something tangible. My outrage had to become a call to action. Finishing my book could wait. I had to do everything I could to help them get jobs and work on their education—anything I could do to prevent them from being thwarted in their efforts. They needed an advocate. That was something I could do.
A huge learning curve lay ahead for all of us. I’d make mistakes, some worse than visiting too many museums or going to a thirteen-inning no-hitter and asking them to eat dog, but I had to try. They deserved every bit of the time and energy it took. I’d call Joseph Jok first thing in the morning and let him know that I’d decided.
I looked over at Benson and in the rearview at the others. “Would you like me to be your mentor?”
They didn’t answer or look at me. I’d been gone for almost two weeks. I’d been no help when they’d asked to sign up for school. I hadn’t exactly shined as a mentor so far, so not wanting me was understandable.
In the mirror, I saw them exchange glances.
Benson wasn’t smiling. He always smiled. What was he thinking?
He looked me right in the eyes and said, “We thought you were our sponsor.”
“Never mind that question. I am. Yes, of course, I am.” What was a sponsor?
PART TWO
SEPTEMBER 3, 2001–FEBRUARY 6, 2002
MANIAC DEPRESSION
Alepho
Three weeks in America and I still had so much to learn. Most days James and Daniel attended GED classes or went to work. Since Lino, Benson, and I had just arrived and had time, TV shows were a good way to learn about our new country. We gathered in the main room and watched.
One day a commercial came on and in it a goat spoke English. Lino sat up and said, “Wow, these American people are so educated even their goats speak English.”
I laughed at first and then realized he wasn’t kidding. “Lino, you know the African goats. Goats don’t talk.”
“African goats are stupid. That’s why they don’t talk.”
“An animal is an animal. There’s no way they can talk.”
Lino made his voice aggressive. “Why are you arguing with me? You just saw the goat talk. What’s wrong with you?”
Was he that angry about a goat? “You know that’s not true. They make things look real in videos and on television even if they aren’t true.”
“What’s not true? Did you see a goat talk?”
“Yes, I saw him,” I said. “But common sense. There’s no way a goat can talk.”
Lino stood. “You’re arguing with me for no reason. You know what, you’re stupid, too. Don’t even try to talk to me.” He stomped into our bedroom.
In Kakuma, Benson and I had seen more movie videos than Lino. We had begun to realize that movies showed things that weren’t real. But some boys took them seriously, especially the martial arts stories. Boys acted out the fighting moves they’d seen, and it sometimes became crazy in the camp. I understood that Lino wasn’t just angry about a goat and whether it talked. Making a life in America, which was so different from our life in Africa, made us all nervous and worried. I felt removed from people here and those anxieties easily became anger.
Lino was still in the bedroom when The Jerry Spring Show came on. We’d seen it before. Jerry Springer was some kind of a mediator. My father had been a mediator. He traveled to other villages to settle disputes. Each time he traveled, he took one son with him. My older brothers argued over the honor of who would be next, but arguing was wasted. My father always chose. Each time a son returned from a trip, he held himself proudly, as if he’d been named chief.
When my father said, “Alepho, tomorrow you will come with me,” I was only five.
At daybreak we walked several hours to a village larger than ours. The elders had gathered in a circle under a huge tree, awaiting my father’s arrival.
“Sit beside me,” my father said. “Listen carefully.”
I sat straight and tall, proud to be the son of the man so respected by this village.
The elder who had summoned my father said, “Ajok speared and killed Mamer’s cow.”
“Ajok,” my father asked, “why did you spear Mamer’s cow?”
“Mamer doesn’t control his cow. She got loose and ate my crops again.”
My father addressed Mamer. “Please explain why you do not control your cow.”
“She’s a very clever cow. She escapes every fence. But she is not aggressive. Ajok did not need to spear her.”
My father paused. They both had a good story. How would my father decide who should be punished?
My father said to Ajok, “You must repay Mamer with one of your cows.”
Ajok did not protest, but his face did not look happy.
“Mamer,” my father said. “You should control your cows. They destroyed Ajok’s crops. You will repay Ajok with a goat.”
At this, Ajok looked pleased.
Everyone else nodded. No one argued with my father’s solution. The dispute was settled.
On the way back to our village, my father explained, “It’s important to listen respectfully to all sides of a disagreement, even disputes between a man and a woman.”
“Yes,” I replied. “But shouldn’t Ajok’s cow be killed too, so they both lose a cow?”
“No,” my father said. “My decision does not involve another animal’s death. Why should an innocent animal die because of a dispute between Ajok and Mamer? Imagine if his son had killed a calf. Should the son be killed? No one or their animal should be killed. Revenge is a never-ending cycle that must be avoided. If someone loses something due to anoth
er’s action, then a debt must be repaid. A cow or a goat, but never revenge.”
“What if he’d killed a person?”
“If it is a serious offense, then the penalty will be many cows. The compromise must be fair and settle the issue permanently.”
Jerry Springer did his mediation in a different style. First people shared their problems with talk, but if someone felt frustrated they slapped the other person to make their point. When that happened, the audience clapped and cheered and a big guy came onstage to stop the fighting. I’d never seen people clap for fighting. Maybe this was how they did it in America.
Still, I wondered why people came to solve their problems in front of other people. Had they been forced to go on the show because of what they had done?
People came to my father and presented their cases, but my father took them aside and they mediated under the big tamarind tree. Sometimes, if it was a difficult case, others wanted to hear, but they had to gather on the edge and remain quiet. On Jerry Springer’s show, they had a large audience that clapped and shouted, and the cameras showed their personal business to the whole world.
After a commercial, Jerry Springer came back on and introduced a girl who had been with more than one guy. She had a baby. Both guys came on the show. Jerry had this amazing test that could determine the father. After each person told their story, Jerry said, “Okay, now we’ll be right back with the results.” The people clapped and were louder than ever.
I’d learned to survive on my own in the real world since I was seven. I could avoid bombs and bullets, sense danger in animals and strangers, find food when there was nothing, and smell water a mile away. This world was different. I spoke the language well enough, but the rules were strange.
Watching dating shows had made me realize what I needed to approach a woman: a car, money, and better English. I’d requested books from Judy so that when I dated a girl I understood the culture. I didn’t want to make a mistake and have to go on The Jerry Springer Show and get slapped.
The longer I lived in my new country, the less I knew about this “new world,” as they called it. Things did not quite make sense. I had food and a safe place to live, but small things gave me anxiety. Where I came from we depended on one another. Here everyone seemed to be his own boss.
Lino still hadn’t come from his room when Jerry Springer came back to announce the results. The man who discovered that he was the father did not look happy. That was strange.
The show ended. A man came on the TV and asked serious questions.
“Are you feeling sad or depressed?
“Are you anxious?
“Are you worried about the future?
“Are you feeling isolated and alone?”
I felt those things. How did the people on television know what I suffered from? I hadn’t told anyone I had anxieties.
The man on TV said I might be suffering from maniac depression. He said I needed their special treatment, Zoloft. It would help ease my discomforts, pains, and anxiety.
I looked over. Benson wasn’t paying attention to the TV. It was as though the man was speaking directly to me. Everyone knew all about me now. My anxiety heightened more. If a man on TV could know how I felt, how could I be so sure goats didn’t talk?
DIEUDONNE
Judy
I called Sharon at the IRC. “Joseph said to call you about becoming a mentor. But first, please explain something to me. What is a sponsor?”
“That’s a different program for people who want to privately sponsor a refugee by providing financial and cultural adaptation support. The Lost Boys came through the IRC, so they don’t have private sponsors.”
“Okay, I see. That’s big. I’m thinking about being a mentor. What does that involve?”
“Perfect timing. The class for prospective mentors is tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“I know you’ve already met with them several times, but we like our mentors to take this class as a basic introduction.”
Cooking dinner and helping Cliff with homework were my priorities in the evenings. I’d thought I could keep my mentoring to daytime activities. What had I committed to in a rush of outrage and passion?
Sharon added, “There won’t be another class for a month.”
I wouldn’t go back on my word. “I’ll be there.”
I’d been a student advisor in the Community Economic Development program at San Diego State University for several years. I emailed my student from the prior year, Dieudonne, who had emigrated from Gabon. He’d been through all this. He replied in an email:
Oh Judy! Amazing news! In my humble opinion you are already off on a good start because of your nature.
My nature? A soccer mom who’d lived in one city her entire sheltered life? Who’d spent nearly twenty years in the insular computer business world? Yes, the last twelve years of parenting had rounded my edges, given me a less self-involved perspective. But I wasn’t a teacher, nurse, or social worker by nature, not particularly patient, I’d never lived in another country, and, unintentionally, I mostly associated with people who came from backgrounds similar to my own. Dieudonne, as was his nature—and his name, “gift from God”—was being kind.
His email continued.
My little experience has taught me that kids, just like the rest of us, have different likes and dislikes, and it is not always easy to reach a consensus. Sometimes you will have to exercise your rule (firmly, but always with a zest of love and care), in an impartial way. It is fine to satisfy their needs, but it is more important to show them how to be considerate of other people’s needs, respect authority, as well as learn to compromise.
Showing interest in their history and experiences will certainly help you relate to them better. Always have a number of suggestions regarding group activities and set some type of democratic system in determining what will take place. You might be frustrated at times with things like time and punctuality. Patience and coaching are the keys. Keep in touch.
Dieudonne’s words rang true to me. I saved his email to read again. He’d shared valuable advice. Don’t spoil them. Acculturate. Teach them our ways. Be fair and patient.
His reminder that they were still young was appreciated. They were so tall, mature, polite, and had survived so much—it was easy to forget that two of them were still teens.
Since I was sitting at the computer, I emailed a fellow writer friend, Roslyn Carrington. She grew up in Trinidad, a multicultural country, and had been to the US many times. From her writing and friendship, I knew she’d have insights. I wrote: I’m concerned about how the boys will do here in America.
She responded: Don’t worry, those boys’ll do just fine. They expect little. They don’t have BMW values. They just want food, shelter, education, and a right to exist.
I’d been ready to plug them into the same thing I hoped for our son: a fulfilling career, home, and family. The American dream. But my dreams were not necessarily their dreams. Beyond survival and education, I didn’t know their dreams. If someone dropped me in Sudan, could I be satisfied pursuing their culture’s goals and dreams?
“You should write about this,” Roslyn said. “At least a short story.”
A story was emerging, I couldn’t deny it, but shelved the idea. I already had one unfinished novel and had begun laborious research on a second. My writing was resembling the incomplete knitting projects in my closet.
I shut down the computer and called Paul. “Will you be home tonight to help Cliff with homework? I have a mentoring class at IRC.”
“Sure.” He sounded hesitant.
“I’ll leave dinner in the fridge.” He wasn’t a cook. That seemed to satisfy him.
“No walk today,” I said to our two Labradors, Casey and Vader, who’d been patiently waiting for me to stand up, their noses pushed against the glass door beside my com
puter station. I rushed out the other way to the garage, and then the store, picked up Cliff, prepared an easy dinner, and hit the road to fight the afternoon traffic in time to make it to the class.
THAT THING CALLED THE LAW
Alepho
Lino and I were in the front room enjoying the TV one afternoon when Majok, a Lost Boy who also lived in San Diego, came to our apartment.
He held out a strip of paper. “I got a ticket.”
It looked like an airplane ticket. “Where are you going?”
“I’m not going anywhere. A policeman gave me the ticket.”
“Why did he give it to you?” That was nice of him. The police in Kenya gave us beatings in the ration lines, but they didn’t give us airline tickets.
“For jaywalking.”
“Not for flying? What’s jaywalking?”
“He said I am not supposed to cross the street.”
“You need a ticket to cross the street?”
“No,” Majok said. “The ticket means I have to go to court and pay money. I asked the policeman, ‘If am I supposed to stay on one side of the street, how am I going to get on the other side to catch the bus to work? I have to go to work. I refuse to accept this ticket.’ The policeman said, ‘Sorry, sir, but you are breaking the law.’ ”
Why hadn’t Judy told us anything about crossing streets? I did not want trouble from the police.
Majok said, “Everything here is governed by the law.”
In our village, they did not have this thing called the law. People did what they were supposed to do. If there were problems, my father was our mediator. After the troops ran us out of our village and we made it to the camp, there were committees to settle the disputes when people fought over food or water. Kakuma had a small jail for more serious crimes, like stabbing someone, or the police took them to the Kenyan prison in Lodwar.
Lino asked, “If this is how people do things, then why is it said that America is the land of the free?”
Disturbed in Their Nests Page 10