The Girl Who Smiled Beads

by Clemantine Wamariya

  “Yes, I see that, Mom,” I said. “But why don’t you also see that I’m making this experience for us? I created these moments.”

  “I see that, mwana wanjye,” she said. “I see, and I appreciate it. But God…” After calling me mwana wanjye, my child, she slipped back into the comfort of her story—her Jesus, her heaven. “We’re some of the luckiest people. The luckiest people. We have our whole family.”

  * * *

  I was on one side of a giant chasm and my mother was on the other. We traveled together, parallel to each other, but we did not connect. Perhaps it was too much to ask.

  It was like that with Claire too. I owe her my life. Every time I need to summon my toughest, most self-actualized persona, I channel her. She has such control, an unwavering sense of her right to exist, a bedrock belief that her story, no matter how dark, matters just as much as anyone else’s, and she instilled that value in me. I wish Claire could appreciate her own uncanny ability to navigate a world that is constantly trying to push her down. But words have limits. I have none that adequately capture our knotted relationship. My most generous feelings are clouded by my own need to be recognized.

  Not long ago, Claire came to visit me in San Francisco and I said, “I feel like you don’t see me. I feel like you don’t appreciate me and the work I’ve done.”

  I felt disregarded, unseen, by the one person in the world who knew. “When you share about our experiences,” I said to Claire, “you always say I. I. You don’t say we. We were together.”

  “But you know,” Claire said, “when I remember our experiences, I’m alone.”

  These days, when I’m with Claire, we have so much love and so much fear, and we want to kill each other. When she’s home, in Chicago, instead of focusing on her own survival or mine, Claire wants to save her whole community, every refugee. Most Sundays she cooks for dozens of friends plus our family. “You are very stupid,” one of these friends told her recently. “Why do you feed all these people? You’re a single mother. You don’t have money, and all these people come to your house?”

  Claire doesn’t live by that logic. “I’ve been doing this for a long time,” she told her friend. “I have food, and I know I will have food tomorrow.”

  That was our mother’s wisdom: Share. Cut the orange into more pieces. “Don’t worry,” my mother used to whisper when many people turned up unexpectedly at our table and our portions grew very small. “If you’re not full at lunch, you’ll be full tonight.”

  Claire’s children knew enough to let Claire be, to let her live by her own inscrutable set of rules. That’s all a person can do, really: Let others live their lives on their terms, and interrogate how you live your own. Insist on knowing the backstory to your gifts and your pain. Ask yourself how you came to have all the things you carry: your privilege, your philosophy, your nightmares, your faith, your sense of order and peace in the world.

  Almost every January, Claire flew back to Rwanda. She bought rice, beef, and potatoes so that she could prepare a big New Year’s meal for orphans. Then she put on a fabulous dress, borrowed one of my aunt’s most expensive bags, and made my aunt or my uncle, whoever was nearby, take hundreds of pictures of her—Claire’s statement that I am here. I am worthy and valuable. You did not destroy me.

  Back home in Chicago, scrolling through the images, Claire’s youngest daughter always asked, incredulous, “How could you possibly do that?” How could you do something that seems so frivolous in a place that caused so much pain?

  Claire saw no alternative. She just shrugged and said, “What do you want me to do? Cry?”

  * * *

  We returned to church tourism—me and my mother in her new coat. On our last day in Rome we went to the Basilica of Saint Paul.

  I wandered off to analyze the architecture, to get back to myself—to parse the building’s history, to dissect its mechanics of awe. This felt like such a relief, to retreat into the world of symbolism, to calm myself with impersonal academic self-talk.

  But after a moment, I shut that down and went to look for my mother. I found her speaking with two nuns, asking if they knew where Saint Brigid was.

  “Yes, yes, she’s in the sanctuary,” one of the nuns said.

  My mother, normally so controlled, could hardly contain her excitement. Saint Brigid is the saint of babies. If you needed to pray for a baby, you prayed to her.

  The Basilica had a service going in the sanctuary, so we had to wait. When it ended, we walked in, and there she was, up in front in an alcove, above us. My mother knelt down and I knelt beside her. She lifted her eyes, clutched her rosary, and cried. “Sisters, you don’t understand,” my mother began telling the nuns. “My children, my girls, they were gone for seven years. I didn’t know where they were. I prayed for the girls and that prayer was answered. They are here. My daughter is here.”

  I watched my mother’s face. She appeared so content, so present, so glorious in that moment, complete in her miracle, holding her string of beads. Her faith had repaired the world. I was happy to be beside her. I envied the comfort she felt.

  The next day we took a train back to the airport. We waited for our separate planes, drinking tea. I bought my mother an extra croissant to carry with her in her bag. I checked several times to be sure she had her passport.

  She had a story that worked for her. I had only a character, a rubric. The girl who smiled beads gave me a way to go through the world, to believe in my own agency and my right to make decisions for myself, but I was still looking for a narrative that felt coherent and complete. No one was going to tell me the plot. It was not going to write itself. I still, still, after everything—Sebald, Night, all the katundu, the thousands of snapshots of my travels—longed for Mukamana. I wanted her to sit on the side of my bed, talk to me, and make my world feel not just magnificent but logical and whole.

  I got on my plane, opened my notebook, and tried to go back to the start.

  22

  Not that long ago, in a land full of hills, not that far away, there lived two girls.

  Every day, they played in their mother’s garden. They wore yellow and red dresses and played among the brightest of flowers, and climbed trees with their brother. In the evenings, they brought their father his slippers, and asked him for treats at night. One day they heard noises that they’d never heard and saw expressions on their parents’ faces that they’d never seen. The sky turned orange and the earth turned gray. They were sent to visit their grandmother, but they heard more noises and saw more strange faces and their grandmother told them to run.

  They ran, and walked, and rode the bus, and nearly drowned on boats. They wandered for seven years, until the older sister was no longer a child and the younger sister wasn’t either. They flew and they landed far away, and the younger sister tried to become a child again, even though she was far too hard to be a child. She looked for new parents. She looked for new powers. She read new books, and everywhere she went people thought she was magic.

  People thought they knew her, people thought they saw her. As she passed by, they said, She’s so strong, she’s so brave. When she told her story they were even more impressed. Poor girl, poor beautiful, special girl, they said, and then they gave her gifts. She was given back her original parents. She was given shiny new siblings. She was given money, status, jewelry, praise, and the fanciest education in the world.

  One day she dressed up like she did when she was a little girl and posed for photos in a beautiful garden. She sat with the geraniums, the lilies, and the birds-of-paradise, all the same flowers that her mother grew. She liked the feel of the sun on her skin. That alone—the warmth—made her feel nourished and whole. The colors all came back to her—only richer and deeper. She wore a red dress and then a happy yellow dress and then a dress with the orange she hated, the orange that filled the sky when she ran.

  Each day sh
e stared at her pictures—the flowers, her skin, the colors, her scars. She tried to hold in her head that it was all true: she was magic, beautiful, strong, brave, triumphant, and hurt. She tried to keep her memories in order, grounded in time. She wanted to tell a true story, a complete story. No ending ever felt right. History made it hard.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  FROM CLEMANTINE

  I am so deeply grateful to each and every one of you. Thank you for sharing your lives with me, for seeing me, for welcoming me into the places and spaces that enabled me to reflect on and piece together parts of my life. I don’t have words to express how you have enriched my perspective and my understanding of being alive. And to those I do not remember by name, who held me and spoke to me in the midst of chaos, I honor your kindness and gentleness. I am all of you, and I will pass forward the gifts you have shared with me.

  To Claire: I thank Imana for adorning you with the love and strength to lead us through the highs and lows of our journey. Thank you for being patient with me and all my craziness. Your life is a gift, and the world and I owe you for sharing a small piece of it with us. I am looking forward to our next adventures.

  To my mom, Christine Mukakalisa, and my dad, Appolinaire Ndayisaba: I am thankful for the lessons and examples you share, for your courage and your grace. I pray I live to love and share as you do.

  To my other parents, MMB, Elizabeth Maxwell Thomas, PPB, and Frederick Thomas: Thank you for welcoming me into your life, and for your support, guidance, and lessons. Your kindness, love, and humility are a few of many gifts that I will cherish forever and pass forward.

  Liz Weil, your openness and listening abilities are out of this planet. There are no words to express my gratitude for your commitment, your sacrifices, and the pure love you shared with me to create this book. Dan, thank you for making us delicious meals. Hannah, thank you for your encouragement and kindness. Audrey, thank you for sharing your sense of humor and keeping us on the tips of our toes.

  Mark Lotto, I am glad I lost my phone at that Kickstarter party; otherwise, we wouldn’t be where we are today. Thank you for sharing your time, creativity, and sense of wonder with me—and for your gift of seeing beyond words.

  Maggie Grainger, I am humbled and thankful for every hour you spent listening to me and gathering every part of our lives into organized form.

  Ian, I couldn’t have done it without you. I could not have wished for a better partner to share this journey with. Thank you for listening, and for your kindness and patience. I am forever grateful for every minute and ounce of strength you shared with me.

  To my agent, Kris Dahl at ICM: Thank you for your immense effort and for connecting the dots, especially to Liz. I am grateful for the time and energy you poured into making sure I had the support I needed to make this book possible. You are a star—thank you for sharing your spark with me.

  To the entire team at Crown, each and every one of you: Thank you so much for every single little thing you did to make sure this book made it into the hands of readers. To my editor, Rachel Klayman: I appreciate you, your attention to detail, and your love for sharing stories that open our hearts. To my publisher, Molly Stern: I am grateful for your trust and enthusiasm; they were the glue that held me together throughout this process. Penny Simon and Lisa Erickson, thank you for your tremendous efforts to share the book with the world. Zach Phillips, thank you for keeping us organized.

  Eric Brown and Michael Rudell, I am grateful to you for walking me through this process kindly and thoughtfully. Deborah Oppenheimer, thank you for honoring human journeys, for opening up new worlds to me, and especially for introducing me to Kris.

  Michele, Danny, Julia, and Robert, you are incredible, thoughtful people whom anyone would wish to guide them into a new life. Michele, you saw me! Your influence has been the catalyst for so many unbelievable moments that led me to reflect and share. May Imana shower you with the gifts you have shared with me and many others, always.

  Jill Weinberg, your passion and your commitment to bringing communities together has opened a passage to many rooms, where I have learned and felt the joy of being alive. Thank you for feeding me, nurturing me, and sharing your compassion.

  To Tom, Andrea, and the rest of the Bernsteins: You are the cheerleaders any girl would want after a Macy’s parade. Your love and encouragement is out of this world, and I am thankful to you for welcoming me into your family. Tom, I am grateful for your foresight, guidance, and efforts to connect us to our human family.

  To Mama Napele, Mama Dina, Papa Bilombele, Kasikile, Dina, Mwasiti, Mado, Patrick and Etienne, and Papa and Mama Fatuma: I salute your strength and everything you were able to share with me.

  Wilma Kline, thank goodness for all our shopping, laughter, and silly moments. I needed that. To Donald Pasulka, Severa Mukamwiza, John and Jennifer Puisas, Sharon Vanderslice, Jim Graves, Vera Wells, Joshua Mbaraga, Amy and Andrew Cohen, Donna Gruskay, Betsy Blumenthal, Jonathan Root, Kevin King, Meridee Moore, Strive and Tsitsi Masiyiwa, Margaret and John Thornton, Lourdes, Pepe Fanjul Jr., Tina and Rick Malnati, and Andy and Kathy Gabelman: I hope you get a chance to meet one another soon. It is a blessing to know you and to be part of your lives. Thank you for all your support and mentorship, and for welcoming me into your homes. I’m so grateful for the kindness and gentleness you share with me and your communities.

  To my sibs: Claudine, Claudette, Clement, Caulay, Stephen, Brad, Neely, Julia C. Robert, Perri, Julia, Sam, Will, Lee, Alexa, Matthew, Lindsay, Tanya, Vimbai, Joanna, Moses, Esther, Sarah, Max, Arthur, Eve, Amelia, Isabel, Kenneth, Joel, Suzan, Lulu, and Peps: Love and thank you for sharing your parents with me. I’m sorry, you are stuck with me!

  To my nieces and nephews, Mariette, Freddy, Michele, Chase, and Kate: You are my bahati.

  To Ms. Oprah Winfrey: Thank you for envisioning our family reunion, for making it happen, and for sharing it with the world. I am also grateful to the Harpo/OWN team, Eric Peltier, Amanda Cash, and those whom I have yet to meet. Our efforts to share my family’s story have enabled me to appreciate how important it is that we all share our experiences.

  To Hannah Bogen, McKay Nield, (A)Lex Caron, Susannah Shattuck, Radha Mistry, Victoria Rogers, Amir Sharif, Zahra Baitie, Blair Miller, Tai Beauchamp, Alexandra Thornton, Abby West, Linda Lai, Benjamin Armstrong, Traci Kim, Hawa Hassan, Campbell Schnebly-Swanson, Patty Soffer, Katherine Maxwell, Alexandra Ivker, Aldi Kaza, Vicki, Hassan, Katie and Reed Colley, Ann Wolk Krouse, and Michael and Sheila Cohen. Thank you for laughing, crying, and dancing with me throughout this process.

  To the people who inspire me every day: dream hampton, Danai Gurira, Nicole Patrice De Member, Zachary O. Enumah, Brenna Hughes Neghaiwi, Yemile Bucay, Julia Zave, Nina and Linda Friend, Maria O’Neill, Becky van der Bogert, Eileen Silva-Tetlow, Diego Taccioli, Kinari Webb, Peter Graves, Heather Scott Arora, John and Audra Hanusek, Michelle Musgrove Price, Wayne Price, Susan Lowenberg, Joyce Newstat, John W. Rogers Jr., Desirée Rogers, Galorah Keshavarz, Magatte Wade, Hank Thomas Willis, and Rujeko Hockley. Thank you for your magic and your support.

  To my Manuscript fam, Dots, and my Summit family: Thank you for cheering me on, always.

  To the Yale community: First and foremost, huge thanks to the Timothy Dwight team, especially for showing up in the winters. I am forever grateful for your time, your energy, and the smiles you shared with me after all-nighters in the library and the dining rooms. Diane Charney, you were my first editor, and I am sorry you had to read all my bad writing. Thank you for everything. Carolyn Barrett, Judith York, Karin Gosselink, and the rest of the writing center staff: Thank you for fighting for the resources that all of us who are differently abled need to be badass. Dean John Loge: My goodness, I have no idea if I would have survived Yale without our Friday visits. To Jeffrey Brenzel, for your wisdom, passion, and tremendous investment in our humanity. To the ladies who run TD, P
atricia (Trish) Cawley and Karen McGovern: You have the most beautiful souls and energy that a college student could ever need. Carol Jacobs, Laura Wexler, Barbara Stuart, Mwalimu Kiarie Wa’Njogu, Katie Trumpener, J. Johnson, Ann Bier-Steker, and Elizabeth Rubin: Thank you for your encouragement and inspiration.

  To the Hotchkiss School community: I am so grateful to you for welcoming all my craziness and for your patience with me when I broke the rules. To the staff, faculty, and students: You gave me an incredible opportunity to learn more about myself. Luisa Redetzki, I have no idea what I would have done without your straightforward, do-not-mess-with-me vibes. To the Wieler girls: Thank you for late-night dance parties and pizza. Sofia Zafra, thank you for all the colors, flowers, and love for your country. Professor Louis Pressman, Simon Walker, Jennifer Craig, Christina Cooper, Alice Sarkissian-Wolf, J. Bradley Faus, and Damon White: Thank you for asking more of me in my thoughts, creativity, and well-being.

  To the New Trier School community: Hilerre Kirsch, Nina Lynn, Marie Adelaide, Cathy D’Agostino, Jeannie Lee Logan, Laura Deutsch, and all the art and ESL teachers. Thank you for sharing your gifts with me. You laid a great foundation that allowed me to understand different aspects of American culture and survive those long hallways.

  To the North Shore Country Day community: I’m so grateful to each and every one of you for your love and continuing support for my family. Kathy McHugh, Barbara Sherman, and Anne-Marie Dall’Agata: Your joy in teaching and sharing your knowledge is out of this world. Please continue.

  To the Swift School and Christian Heritage Academy communities: I don’t remember most of your full names, since I didn’t speak or understand much English when I knew you. Ms. Garcia, Anayeli, Donika, Sharon James Ledbetter, the Beasley family: You had a huge impact on my first years in America. Thank you for communicating your truth and love without words.