Judy
An obsidian scorpion the size of a lobster cornered me in the kitchen of the house I grew up in. Paul was down the hall. I screamed. No sound came out. I tried again and again. He didn’t look my way. A hum grew to a roar. Antonovs. If I could hear them, their bombs were already falling. Flames exploded in the orchard.
I awoke in a sweat. This was the second dream I’d had that could have been in Africa but was at home, or a place similar to my home. In the first dream a lion had chased me, and I ran as though through molasses; I’d awakened just as he leapt.
The dreams were unsettling, but illuminating. I’d been told that Alepho had taken to sleeping on the floor because he fell out of his bed during nightmares. If I had bad dreams from just hearing about their experiences, I couldn’t imagine how real and horrible all of theirs could be.
Joseph Jok called midmorning. “The property management company on Adams has a couple of apartments for you to look at.”
I went by the Euclid apartment to see if I could get Alepho to come with me. He’d been excited when I mentioned moving.
Benson answered the door. “He’s sleeping.”
Again? He hadn’t even worked the night before. “Is Alepho still going to his GED classes?”
“I don’t see him go. Sometimes he is sleeping.”
Sometimes?
Benson attended morning classes but Alepho had been going to the evening ones because he went home to sleep after the graveyard shift. I didn’t blame Alepho for no longer wanting to venture out at night, but for him to miss school saddened me, and the excessive sleeping was worrying. Surely, this was post-traumatic stress—or whatever one called it when the trauma hadn’t ever stopped.
Benson agreed to come, and we met Joseph Jok at the property management company just down the block from the IRC offices. If only they’d find them a place in that neighborhood. We picked up two keys for vacant units and headed over to check them out. The apartments, however, were not farther from their Euclid one and closer to Van Dyke Avenue, the gang more well-known than the street itself.
“Please,” I begged the woman at the property management office, “find us something in this area.”
Another day when I arrived at Euclid, Alepho was on the couch. I convinced him to go grocery shopping. On the way back to his apartment, I decided to stop by the property management office to see if there was anything new on the list. Alepho had brought his algebra book with him, probably a device to keep from talking to me, and absently stared at the open pages sprawled across his lap while I drove.
I stopped at the property management company, but they didn’t have any new apartments that were either affordable or in the right area. The rest of the way home Alepho seemed to be in some far-off place, like he was wishing he was anywhere but where he was.
• • •
Whenever I was in town, I stopped by the property management company and checked in with Candace—we were now on a first name basis—to see if any apartments had become available. She assured me that she’d call if they did. I had doubts, but figured she might eventually just want to get rid of me.
Classified ads still bore as much fruit as a rock.
I searched out articles on the internet, talked to experts, and read books by experts in a quest to know more about people who had suffered trauma. Get out of the house, break the cycle, was the general consensus. That was something I could actually help with. Whether it had been Alepho’s recent beating at the bus stop, a lifetime of trauma, or the adjustment to a new place and culture that had neutralized his zest for life, I couldn’t be sure. Maybe he didn’t know either. I rarely understood what caused my own low spirits that could, at times, require a superhuman effort just to start the day.
To the point of irritating him, I’d often mentioned that professional counselors or doctors were available to him or any of the other Lost Boys. Thanks to a local nonprofit, Survivors of Torture, International, it was easier to get psychological treatment than medical treatment.
I did my best to explain the concept. Still, Alepho wasn’t interested. A psychiatrist friend enlightened me. “Talk therapy is a Western thing. Many cultures would find talking about your pain a worse torture. As do many Americans.”
When I wasn’t with Alepho or the others, I tried to keep from getting overwhelmed by it all myself. Not with great success. Their struggles were always on my mind.
One Monday, when Cliff had after-school activities, I was free for the day. Alepho hadn’t worked the night before, so I called him around eleven. “Hello.” He sounded like I’d woken him up.
“How about doing something like the museums or a movie?”
“I’m really, really tired.”
It would have been so easy to just say, Okay, fine, some other time. But he needed to get out. “Please, Alepho. Let’s go do something fun. Just for an hour or two. It’s your day off.”
When I picked him up he was wearing a dark sweatshirt with the hood up over his head, sunglasses, and earphones to his cassette player. The beat of traditional Dinka music leaked out.
I drove to Balboa Park. “Let’s see what’s playing at the natural history museum. You will need to leave the music in the car.”
He reluctantly removed the earplugs and cassette player and put them on the car floor. We watched two documentaries on the museum’s massive new screen. The second one on Baja California had such breathtaking photography I wanted to move five hundred miles south to somewhere on the Sea of Cortez.
“I really liked that movie,” Alepho said as we walked out.
That tidbit of enthusiasm was like a cup of cool water. “Yeah, wasn’t that amazing,” I gushed. “I love that area. So beautiful. Really spectacular.”
“Can we go home now?”
My heart sank. “Oh, sure. Of course.” Our excursion had been disappointingly short, but if I didn’t oblige him now, he might not go out again.
I arrived home after dropping Alepho off and listened to a message on my answering machine from my father, who said he had waited at our favorite restaurant until twelve thirty. “Did I have the wrong day?” he asked.
No. He didn’t have the wrong day, and it was so totally like my father to assume fault.
I was the one who had forgotten. A disturbing image of him at the table alone assuming it was his mistake only made my rudeness feel worse. Unforgivable. Next it could be Cliff waiting on the curb somewhere.
STRONG WORDS
Alepho
Everybody tried to irritate me, to make me angry. I played Dinka traditional music whenever I was at home. It helped me to think of other things.
One day James said, “Turn off the music. It disturbs my studying.”
“You’re stupid,” I said.
“Sit down.”
I sat on the couch as James requested. He was older and a military man. I respected him for that.
He stood over me and looked down. “You are just my roommate. They brought you here to this apartment. You were a good guy, but now I don’t know who you are anymore. I don’t know what you’ve been through. I don’t know what you’re going through now. What you said to me, calling me stupid, that is wrong because I never said anything wrong to you.”
James had never spoken to me like that. He was always laughing and making jokes. His strong words surprised me. They upset me more. “You’re stupid and you don’t care.”
James didn’t respond. He threw up his arms and went into his room.
At first, anger burned inside me. Then I thought more about what James had said. I’d gone down in my feelings and in my mind. I didn’t approach my roommates nicely. Small comments made me lash out at everybody.
Reacting to my environment was why I was still alive. In the war, the boys who hadn’t reacted, the ones who went into shock or just sat down, were the ones who died. Antonovs b
ombed us, soldiers shot at us. You had to either lie down or jump in a trench. Sometimes bombs landed in the trench and those people were buried. Either way, you weren’t sure about your protection. My spirit had always been jittery and shivering.
In America, I was having that same nervous reaction. I sweated and my heart raced when someone came close or I just thought about it. Sleep offered no peace. Nightmares sent me right back into war. Even though I was in America, these things were constant reminders of my past.
I didn’t know what to do or where to go. Sudan still had war. The camp had no hope.
EXASPERATION
Judy
Reading to fall asleep was a lifelong habit. I propped my pillow against the headboard and opened up a thriller romance. Delicious escapism from real problems.
Paul climbed into bed, opened his medical journal, and looked over his glasses at me. “What’s that?”
Did he have to comment? “A novel.”
“You finished your research on Sudan?”
“What’s the point? Taking a break.”
“What are you doing tomorrow?”
He didn’t usually ask me that. “Going for a run with the dogs and then running some errands. Working in the yard. Running some more. I don’t know.”
“Not going to town. You’re kidding.”
“I’m not kidding.” My response came out snappy. My frustration wasn’t with him. I softened my tone. “I’m tired of walking around in a fog. I’ve learned a lesson the hard way. You can’t get emotionally involved. I’m going to do what I started out to do in the beginning—fun excursions. I can’t solve all their problems.” I didn’t mention leaving my father alone in a restaurant. I was too ashamed.
“What’s so unsolvable?”
“Jobs, apartments, school. Medical. Post-traumatic stress disorder. The list goes on.” No reason to mention being stopped by that cop or the recent beatings. He wouldn’t understand and might not want me down there at all. I wasn’t in danger because I wasn’t a threat—unless it looked like the North County soccer moms had formed a gang and were moving in. If Paul insisted I shouldn’t be in that neighborhood, it would add another complication and I had enough of those.
“Then who’s going to help the guys?”
I didn’t answer.
“You just seem happier when you’re involved.”
“Happier? Lying awake worrying that someone might get fired or become homeless or get beaten, and there’s nothing I can do about it. How is that happy?”
“Call it fulfilled then.”
“It’s only fulfilling if I can accomplish something.” The second that was out of my mouth, I knew how horribly empty and selfish it sounded and that my fulfillment was never the point. A swell rose in my chest and up into my throat. “I … left my father sitting alone in a restaurant waiting for me.”
Paul smiled. I was close to sobbing, and he smiled.
“Did you really?”
“Yes.”
“You’re overreacting. Your dad is cool. Plus, that’s easy to solve. Read your calendar. Or better yet, get a PalmPilot.”
I shook my head. It figured he’d have a solution, and that it would involve technology. A PalmPilot. Another time I might have laughed. “Seriously. I’m not qualified to really help them and I’ve made mistakes. My expectations were too high.”
“So what does that mean?”
“I’ll help them with their English, or take them to the beach or on a hike.” What I really yearned to do was go on a long road trip. Up Highway 1 to Big Sur or across the Southwest. Alone. My life was the ideal and dream of most of the world. Where was this feeling coming from? Flee what? Responsibilities? The people I loved?
Paul gave me a disbelieving look. “Yeah, right, the beach, huh? I’ve never known you to do things half-ass.”
I gave him my dirtiest look. It had been a compliment, but I wasn’t in a reasonable state.
“You used to work as many hours as I did,” he went on. “You’re not happy when you’re idle.”
Persistence was one of his virtues. An admirable trait when it wasn’t applied to me. I just wanted to get under the covers, but insulting him wasn’t a way to say goodnight. “I didn’t say idle. I’m just going back to my original commitment. I might have been a dedicated mom, I might have worked hard in computers, but I kept my priorities. This time I feel like I’ve walked out of my life.”
“Are you sure you didn’t just walk into your life?”
• • •
Alepho emailed the next afternoon. Do you think they should bring refugees to this country?
Typical tough Alepho question. Maybe the answer depended on whether your mentor was competent or a floundering failure.
That evening I made a three-course dinner from scratch. Paul hadn’t eaten like that in a while.
“So,” he said, “looks like you stayed home.”
“Do you remember how I told you that Alepho always asks me the really hard questions?”
“Yeah,” he said, discreetly trying to chew the brisket.
“Today he had one that I couldn’t even begin to address.”
“What was that?”
“He asked me if I thought it was a good thing to bring refugees to this country.”
“It has to be better than where they were.”
“We like to believe that. Of course, they have more food, but it hasn’t been all that safe. In the camp, they went to school all day; now they ride the damn bus and work. They used to play soccer. They don’t have time much less a place to do that here. They’re lonely, I can see it. I used to think that they would have hope for a better life. But life in the city is so different from ours. They try, but everything seems to knock them back down.”
“Did you really think things would come together in less than a year?”
“Bottom line is, I made a mistake going beyond showing them San Diego. It’s a never-ending battle, and the worst thing is I’ve created false hope for a dream that can’t come true.”
WHAT TO DO WITH PAIN
Alepho
My roommates, brother, and cousin said they saw a bad change in me. I wasn’t the same person I had been when we came to America. They scolded me and advised me.
“What are you doing?” Benson asked. “You are doing nothing. Remember your past. You survived greater challenges.”
When I wasn’t working, I stayed in my room. People had tried to talk to me. They told me I was different now. I knew that. I felt different. Judy asked me if I wanted to see a doctor. I didn’t need a doctor; I wasn’t sick or bleeding. Judy took me to a museum and movie. I knew she was trying to get me to be out of the house. I wasn’t comfortable outside. People stared at me, but now I understood that it was not because they were curious like we had been as kids about the white people, it was because I was an ugly person or I didn’t smell good.
There was still a breath of life in me, but I hurt deeply. Not like the pain of my stomachaches or headaches. Those were not serious pains. I knew how to live with those pains. This was something in my heart or my soul. It was in my chest like a weight. No one could feel my pain. They could not understand. I did not understand.
I didn’t want anyone to sympathize with me. This was my own problem. I’d known much worse physical pain and suffering. Now I was mostly sad. But why? I was in the best country in the world with a job, a place to live with a bed, a couch, and even a refrigerator and television. These were things that I had never imagined having.
I wasn’t afraid of pain. Pain is an interesting thing because it causes people to change. Some quit or give up. Some, like me, become angry or sad. Others improve.
At times pain had raised me to a new level in life. When things had knocked me down—a war, hunger, or even a bully—I became less prideful or arrogant. Less judgmental of others
. I saw more of myself and the world around me, like never before. A light came into me. Deep pain had made me rise above my human defects of character, like being selfish or judgmental. It had forced me to do something and given me discipline.
But I’d also seen pain make good people do bad things. Parents trying to save their child! I saw pain expose the precious nature of people’s beings. Suffering people helped those who were suffering more. The jewels, the pearls, the very being of people could shine through pain.
I didn’t want to be the person who gave up or gave in or became cruel. I wanted to be the one who shined.
Whenever I was in pain, my heart told me to go home. Where was that? My mind wasn’t reasoning well. My heart was caught in a trap, and I wanted to figure a way out. I tried to be better each day. I tried to make myself busy. I tried to be with people so that I wouldn’t feel alone and disconnected. But amidst people, I felt that gap more. The pain hurt deeply, but I could handle that. Sadness stopped me now.
Change was a process. I’d been through it before. Survival had been what forced me to do things, but I didn’t need to search for food or run from bombs anymore. Now I worried about things like how people looked at me or how I smelled.
I’d read on the internet that they could inject a person with Botox to stop the sweating. I called Judy to ask her about that. She didn’t answer. I didn’t leave a message.
I couldn’t find the thing to start the process of change. I used to love books. I’d waited for weeks in the camp to have a book for one night. Now I had books all around my bed, but they didn’t interest me. I no longer wanted to walk or explore my new surroundings. Some days I didn’t even care if I escaped the feelings that kept me back. Was I just a lazy person?
WORMS
Judy
I met my understanding father at his favorite restaurant. He didn’t bring up the missed lunch the week before, so I did. “I’m making changes,” I said.
My cell phone rang while we were eating. Caller ID showed the apartment on Euclid. I ignored the call. They’d leave a message if it was urgent.
Disturbed in Their Nests Page 29