For the rest of my time at Maine Central Institute, this will be my routine, and the time begins to fly by quicker than I expected. I work hard in my classes to get good grades. Math proves easiest for me, and I progress quickly. Even in English, my third language, I do better than the average student, and I am proud of myself.
Most challenging of all, though, is the number of general references in school to American things I don’t understand. For example, a teacher might name a musician or talk about something that once happened in the United States that I have never heard of, and I get really confused. Although I love my history class and have one of my favorite teachers (who is also my track coach), this problem with references happens constantly! It seems Americans and Kenyans learn very different history lessons. When they say “the civil war,” I am thinking of something very different.
It is in my biology class that I have to do a research project, a two-page report on mammals. It is my very first research paper in my whole life, so I go to the library and get on a computer and google “mammals.” I haven’t spent much time in my life on the internet, except for when Claire and Lara taught a computer class at Imani, and I see that it has everything. On the very first page that comes up, I click on a page that looks good. It is called Wikipedia.com.
As I read the information on the page, I think it is really interesting and certainly very full of information. Some of the information I know and some of it I don’t, and this makes me know that it is perfect for my research assignment. So I copy the page, open up a Word program, and paste the text right into it. I put my name, Samuel Gachagua, at the top, and write a title: “Research on Mammals.” I think it is the best thing I have ever done in my life—my very first research paper! I am really excited.
The library lady helps me print out the paper, and I turn it in. The next day in biology class, Miss Cardenas, who is also my cross-country coach, comes to me with my paper and tells me that she has given me a 60, which is the lowest grade possible. She calmly explains that I cannot copy and paste things from the internet. This is a new concept to me, and it takes me time to learn the differences between cheating and researching. (Now I look back on that paper and laugh at how wrong it must have seemed to my teachers, but it took a long time for me to learn this important lesson. At the orphanage, we copied from each other’s papers all the time, and no one noticed or taught us it was wrong.)
The next research project I have to do is a joint project on the bayou. I am still intimidated by white students, as they seem to know everything and I am sure they are much smarter than I can ever be. I am convinced that my friend Forrest is disappointed by the fact that he has been assigned to do a project with a clueless African counterpart who has no idea what the bayou is.
I decide to seek help on the project after school at the library, and I ask the librarian a lot of things to help me better understand computers, websites, and the internet. I spend about three days in the library getting help for my research on the project, and after all the research it is time to start typing up the project with Forrest. He tells me that because he has done more of the research, it is my job to type the three-page paper. He doesn’t know what he is getting into, though.
I say, “Okay!” and start typing.
As he watches, I can see his frustration growing by the minute. I don’t know what he is getting so worked up about until he shouts at me, “You type too slow! Give me the darned computer!”
As he types, I am quite simply stunned. He isn’t looking at the keyboard but at the monitor, and he is typing really, really fast. And then I realize that he must have been going crazy watching me try to type. I reason, though, that it isn’t my fault. It is the fault of the person who made the keyboard the way it is, because since it is not in alphabetical order it is impossible to find the keys quickly. I just don’t understand why someone would do that.
To solve the problem, I decide to go back to the library and take some typing lessons from the librarian. She installs a program in one of the computers where I just type the words that are shown on the screen. Slowly I improve, and I eventually type the conclusion for our project. It takes me two days, and I work hard on it. Although we don’t get the best grade on the project, I am really proud of how I have learned to deal with the issues that come up, and I know I am getting better. Progress is slow, but it is happening.
At MCI, I become very involved in extracurricular activities, and they are an important part of my experience in high school. I hold various leadership positions in the diversity club, the residential student council, and others. It seems all my activities in Kenya carry over to the United States and somehow become more official. Like the singing and drama I did in church, acting with the drama club lets me join a group to put on a production. I start by working on the sets but then take acting classes and join a lot of plays. Early on, this helps me to integrate better into American culture and the American high school scene. I make new friends, and others start to see me not as the “naïve African student” but instead as Sammy—not a skin color but a person.
I join a lot of groups, but sports come to really define my years at MCI. It starts with cross-country, where Miss Cardenas inspires me from the beginning and helps me to integrate with other students. Whenever I have problems or questions, I go to her and ask her questions. By training with her in cross-country and learning from her in biology, I get to know her well, and she becomes one of my greatest mentors in school.
When I start cross-country, I am horrible at first. I am surprised by this because I am Kenyan and I have run for years with Hope Runs, but these students are all so fast. I see that when we were running in Kenya—with Claire and Lara trying as coaches—we were not really training as seriously as I thought we were. The idea of training was so new that I thought we had a rigorous schedule, and it was amazing to watch what we accomplished over the many months of running. I realize now at MCI why Claire and Lara were always pushing us harder and telling us we could do more. At the orphanage we were dedicated, but we were not experts.
But I do not get discouraged. I have seen that with running, the more you work, the more you improve. So I keep practicing, and slowly I become one of the fastest on the team.
However, it is cross-country that finally gets me in the hospital for the first time in my life. I am at a championship run during my senior year, and it is cold and rainy. I am very hopeful that day because it is going to be one of my last races as a cross-country runner in high school, and I want to do the best I can and get a good position. After about five minutes of running, though, my head starts spinning. I don’t know what is happening, but I keep going. I can’t see very far, and the distance I can see clearly keeps shrinking. A terrible headache starts growing stronger and stronger, and I am getting dizzier and dizzier. I should stop but I don’t. Instead, I just let the guy behind pass me, and I follow him, not able to see the path clearly. I keep running, and all I can see is haziness.
When I pass the finish line, I can hear people saying, “Keep walking, keep walking.” And so I keep walking until I don’t remember anything else.
What I do remember is waking up on the ground and realizing that Coach Cardenas is there asking me, “Are you okay, Sammy?” She tells me I have been lying there for five minutes, but I have no idea why. It sounds like she is speaking a really weird language, and then she picks me up, but as soon as she does I lose consciousness again.
The next time I wake up, I am in an ambulance, and it is going as fast as possible, it seems to me. I am getting really scared. All I can see is Coach Cardenas right next to me, and Megan, my friend and fellow captain, is there too. We go straight to the hospital, but the whole way I am so confused and talking about weird things.
As soon as I get to the hospital about twenty minutes later, the school president and some other people are already there and ask how I feel. I am better, and the dizziness is almost gone.
Over the course of days and days, they do many t
ests to find out what happened to me. In the end, the doctor tells me that I have a blood condition called alpha-thalassemia, which means I have little red blood cells that are shaped like rice instead of being hollow disks like they should be. The doctor explains that for me personally, this may have been a good thing, as I had a smaller chance of getting malaria back in Kenya. However, the condition can cause problems, as it had on the day of my race, and I would need to be careful. It also means that if I marry a spouse with the same problem, our little baby might not grow past a young age. I find it funny to think of having babies, but I realize that like most things, my health has good and bad parts. It was awesome not to get malaria, but there is still a consequence for my life.
Over the years there would be many more trips to the hospital and a lot more health questions that needed to be answered. Growing up as I did, I have realized there are long-term health consequences and we can’t know much about my health background, so a lot of tests and doctors would become part of my next few years, thankfully without anything too serious.
I recover from the race and am able to return to practice. I love cross-country, and my success boosts my relationships with friends around school and my well-being in general. By the time I have finished three years of running, I have been named one of the best runners in the region, earning a sixth-place position. Becoming a cross-country captain is something I had really been hoping for, and when I become a senior, the coach tells me I have proven myself, and she makes me a captain.
Track and field also becomes something I am very proud of. I had practiced more at long-distance running in Kenya, so in my first year of track and field I am not able to qualify for any championships. I volunteer myself to the coach to join the race-walking program, which at first he discourages. I convince him to let me try—I just believe that all my years of walking were the perfect training—and I not only make the team but also eventually become a state champion.
Outside of running practice, I find a way to help MCI’s teams like I helped Lara and Claire with the marathon when I couldn’t run. I become involved with the postgraduate (PG) basketball program at MCI as their manager. As I did with the Lewa Marathon, I travel with the team and help get everything ready and even help with photographs. The boys who play PG basketball are older and tougher, and some are even black like me. We become friends in a way, and I follow their team to the New England championships.
My world at MCI becomes very busy and very full. I love my activities but am exhausted trying to keep up with everything, with Lara and Claire always pushing me to keep my grades up. They talk about my future and college and urge me to try really hard.
However, being in the United States isn’t just about school; it is also about family. Over the years Claire and Lara and I become much closer, and I get to know their friends and their extended families.
Claire
Chapter 13
Buenos Aires is not a new city to me. Several years before, in the months before my trip around the world with Lara, I had lived in the large metropolis. Absurdly, making Buenos Aires my home was a fantasy born out of a love for an Argentine soap opera about singing orphans that I became addicted to while living in Mexico. I love the Argentine city of steak and wine and tango, and my mother and I rent an apartment to stay in the city for two weeks after the cruise, before I head back to Africa. A few days before my flight is set to leave, a distant friend from college who is spending a year in Buenos Aires invites me to come to dinner with some of her friends.
“I want you to meet someone in particular,” she says. “He’s the perfect international man.” And she emails me the picture of an incredibly handsome Argentine playing a guitar.
I am seated at the Italian restaurant in a black and white sweater vest with a handful of people around me when José walks in, and from the moment he sits down at the head of the table, I am certain I can fall in love with this man. Partway through the dinner, people move seats so we can sit next to each other—it is something of a setup, after all—and we begin talking. To this day we do not remember in what language we spoke.
I am nervous, tearing at the label on my bottle of water, when I mention that I once rented a car and drove to the hotel that is the inspiration for the logo on the water bottle, a place in the far western Andes in Argentina. He knows it and nods. “It’s just like the hotel in that old movie The Shining,” he says. “Abandoned and amazing.”
He had been there too.
When I had gone there, I thought that very thing and wanted to stay at the place for days, intrigued and scared all at once. I want to say so now but assume this strange man from another land will think I am out of my mind. So instead I smile wide.
The strange kinship over the creepy movie, and the fact that I ask bold, wildly inappropriate questions for a first meeting—“Why aren’t you married? How did your last relationship end?”—make José pause. By the end of the night, he has come to two conclusions.
One, I am a bit dark. And two, he is intrigued. He asks me to go for a bike ride the following weekend—is he asking me on a date? I can’t tell, but either way, the next morning I call the airline and change my flight so that I can stay in Argentina an extra month.
I stay for nine, and I marry José.
I am bumping along a horrid African road in the bush with Lara a few months after that Italian dinner in Buenos Aires. It is my second trip to Africa since leaving the orphanage the year before, and my first with Lara. It feels like old times, except that things are different now. Hope Runs has grown dramatically, and we have much more on our plates in running the nonprofit.
When I tell her I am in love with José, she says, blindsided as I was, “I really didn’t see that one coming.”
Life has thrown me.
After nine months in Argentina—with several trips to Africa sprinkled in between—I begin business school in England. At Oxford, I wear layers and shiver out the year, wondering why no one has ever explained to me that darkness envelops England at 4:00 p.m. for so much of the year. José visits several times, and we freeze and drink tea together and talk about our future, which now involves too many continents to count, it seems.
In Oxford in the fall of 2008, I meet Biz Stone, the cofounder of Twitter, a tiny startup of a dozen employees, and get an offer to join the company to help others use the platform to do good in the world.
It was at Imani that I had learned to use Twitter, after all. Many a night you could find me wildly waving my cell phone above my head on the roof of the orphanage, trying to catch a spare cell phone bar. After connecting my Bluetooth dongle to my cruddy red dirt–encrusted cell phone, I tweeted about what it was like to “coach” kids who sprinted faster and farther than I ever could, and about running in the mud with eight-year-old girls in discarded prom dresses holding my hands. Overwhelmingly, I tweeted about a far-off life, trying to fumble toward doing good by doing well.
The tiny company had taken notice, publishing a post on the Twitter blog in 2006 about my joining the platform and some of the tweets I had sent (on some days, it could take thirty minutes for one to upload).
And then everything happens at once.
Just as work is starting with Twitter in San Francisco and José and I are planning our future together, we find a way to bring Sammy to the United States.
When my parents had declined to adopt Sammy the year before—my father joking years later that he couldn’t possibly face another four years with my younger brother’s miserable track coach at Berkeley High School—we started looking for other paths. Sammy was still a minor, and I was too close in age to adopt him.
We are at our college friend’s wedding in Boston in the spring of 2009 when Lara pulls me away from my assigned seat at the reception dinner. We are seated at separate tables, and as the make-your-own wedding sundaes come out, she grabs me, hissing, “I’m sitting next to someone you want to meet.”
By chance, she had been placed next to the financial aid director
for a boarding school in a small town in Maine. “We’re always looking for interesting international students,” Clint Williams explained.
We jump into action.
By the end of the dinner, we are wild with the idea.
The logistics, though, prove one of the biggest headaches we could ever imagine. The timeline, for one, is bad. We have four months before his sophomore year in Maine would start, and four months is not a long period of time to move the mountains that need to be moved. There are endless problems to be dealt with, and had we a hint that night of what we would have to go through, I’m not certain we ever could’ve convinced Maine Central Institute to take on such a challenge.
Some things prove easier than others. The orphanage has no qualms and agrees with us that it is a great idea and we should do everything we can to pursue it. Sammy, on his end, is thrilled, and the orphanage manager, Eunice, is immediately willing to do whatever she can to make it happen. That said, communication with the orphanage is always difficult, and when we try to move quickly on a big project, it proves expectedly challenging. Since we left, they’ve returned to having almost no internet access whatsoever, so the only way to communicate is to call Eunice and hope that the rural Kenyan reception is in our favor. The only way we can talk directly to Sammy is by calling Eunice and having her put Sammy on the phone if he’s not in school.
Quickly it becomes clear that we can’t manage things from afar, but the timing for me falls between the last months of business school and the first months of my new job at Twitter, a small start-up more fast-paced than I could have ever dreamed. Lara takes everything on and makes two trips during the late spring and summer to deal with some of the unending issues: finding Sammy’s birth certificate, getting Sammy a passport (since he’s an orphan, this is hugely difficult), getting his vaccinations, and ultimately getting him the visa to come. Amazingly, he doesn’t get his visa in hand until hours before his flight to the United States.
Hope Runs Page 14